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Rh ::And, couched in Ellen’s bower, I watched, beneath its latticed leaves, Her coming, through a summer eve’s
 * Youngest and loveliest hour.

She came not—lonely was her home; Herself of airy shapes “that come
 * Like shadows, so depart.”

Are there two Ellens of the mind? Or have I lived at last to find
 * The Ellen of my heart?

For music, like Sir Walter’s, now Rings round me, and again I bow
 * Before the shrine of song,

Devoutly as I bowed in youth; For hearts that worship there, in truth
 * And joy, are ever young.

And dear the harp that sings to-day, And well its gladdened strings obey
 * Its minstrel’s loved command—

A minstrel-maid’s, whose infant eyes Looked on Ohio’s woods and skies,
 * My youth’s unheard-of land.

And beautiful that wreath she twines Round Albi cottage bowered in vines,
 * Or blest in sleigh-bell mirth;